Page 12 of Christmas Criminal

Why am I suddenly looking forward to community service?

Probably because the guy I'm stuck doing community servicewithhas a charming smile. A stupidly nice personality. A trustworthy vibe that has me itching to divulge my high school trauma because something about him tells me he's a black box. A safe space to store those old memories that pop up when you're having an otherwise nice day and crumble that strong facade you've been crafting since they happened.

When I get to the high school, he's sitting at the front desk again, his feet up and crossed on one side and his head in a book. I know before he looks up that he's going to push those glasses up on his head and his hair is going to stick out a little wildly around them. He's going to raise his eyebrows and smile kindly at me, like maybe it's a nice surprise to see me or I'm his regular Sunday morning date.

The thought sends a little jolt down my spine.His Sunday morning date.Like maybe instead of meeting each other at thelocal high school-slash-prison, I might turn over, pulling the sheets from between us, and nestle my face into his bare chest. Like he might kiss my head while I'm still groggy and read in bed while waiting for me to become a real human.

I find myself wondering if he has chest hair. What color his sheets are. Whether he drinks coffee or wakes up naturally this chipper.

"Good morning," I say, approaching the front desk.

And he does the whole thing. The glasses, the slight smile. His feet drop to the floor and he stands, stretching in a way that highlights his pecs through that stupid Snow Falls High School T-shirt he's wearing.God, does he haveanyother clothing?

"Good morning, Noelle."

Every time he grins, it reaches his eyes, and it seems so genuine. Like he doesn't give smiles without a good reason, but healwayshas a good reason.

I take a deep breath to calm the butterflies rioting in my stomach.

"I have something fun for us today," he says, watching my face as we walk the halls.

"That makes me nervous," I say.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I feel like teachers don't know what fun is. Like, every time a teacher haseversaid that to me, I think I've had possibly theoppositeof fun. God, group projects? Pop quizzes? That time Mr. Carmichael brought a tarantula into school? Not fun. Nope. Do I need a doctor's note?"

Nick laughs. "To be fair, I think in most cases when a teacher says that to their class, they mean it's going to be fun forthem."

"Ah, there's the context I've been missing."He stops in front of a very familiar door, and I raise my eyebrows. "What do you have up your sleeve?"

He pulls a key out of his pocket and opens the door, holding it so I can go in first.

And to be fair, this is one of the few places Idon'thave bad memories.

It still smells the same. Old books with a hint of something a little bit stale. I swear, I cansmellthat old-lady perfume Mrs. Nguyen uses, like maybe she actually doessleep under her desk.

"So I talked to Mrs. Nguyen, who remembers you fondly by the way," he says. My face heats, because for some reason this arbitrary judgment from my high school librarian turns me back into that validation-seeking teenager I once was. "And she was thrilled to learn that despite your criminal tendencies, you're doing well. And she said that if we were searching for a community service project to take part in, she could really use some help in updating the software on the computers. And if we wanted to sort out the holds for the week and shelve some returns while we were here, that would be a great help."

"I can't believe you're going around telling my old high school librarian that I'm a criminal."

He shrugs. "To be fair, she said your dad deserved to be egged."

A disbelieving snort jumps from my throat. "Oh."

"I guess you're not the only one who's done with his bullshit."

Thatfeels kind of good. Vindicating, really.

My dad’s the kind of person who can charm people easily. Always grinning or laughing. Usually drinking. It’s a special kind of torture to have someone look at you in confusion when you mention your dad has trouble showing up to holidays or school events. To have people discount your experience of your own family based on their own arbitrary interactions with them.

All that to say, it feels good that Mrs. Nguyen saw right through that. Like she’s on my side.

A little drop of optimism blooms in my chest. Maybe she alwayswason my side.

I shake the thought away as Nick leads us to the bank of computers set up in a semi-circle in the middle of the library. Around us are rows and rows of books, filling up the first floor, with several stacks stuffed into the balcony above us.

I've always loved how libraries are set up. Endless words and information at your fingertips surrounding you like a threat but whispering with invitation. The ability to learn or read almost anything. Stories and characters you'd never otherwise experience. Hobbies that are completely foreign to you until you flip through a few pages of a book.

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